Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, spicy🌶, killing
Summary: You are kidnapped by Mafia Leader/Mob boss Natasha Romanoff.
Inspo: 365 Days movie
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You shouldn’t have gone with her. You told yourself it wasn’t your fault. You told yourself that you were the victim, well maybe not the victim but definitely not the cause. You tried to convince yourself that it wasn’t your fault. You were lying.
The trip had started off good. You’d ridden in the backseat of an admittedly beautiful limo. Natasha sat next to you. She was more relaxed than she had been earlier, smiling at you as you got in the car.
“Y/n,” she had said happily, “do you have everything you need?” You nodded and couldn’t help smiling back. The ride had been an hour and it was mostly silent but not an awkward silence. No, it was rather comfortable as far as car rides with the woman who kidnapped you based on a weird delusion could be. You’d even caught yourself humming to the radio.
The shopping wasn’t bad either. Her men held your bags as the two of you went from store to store. You bought thing after thing, dresses, hats, shoes, jewelry. Natasha didn’t spare a single expense either, allowing you anything you wanted. She seemed to have a bottomless bank account. You hated to admit that you enjoyed yourself.
At least until the lingerie store. You’d picked out an all black set and went into the dressing room to try them on. As you looked at your almost naked body in the mirror, the curtian open. You reflexively moved to cover your exposed skin. Natasha smirked and batted your hands back.
“So pretty,” she said in a low voice, her eyes trained on your half exposed boobs.
“Take a good look now cuz it’s the last time you’ll see them.” Looking at her dead in the eyes, You pulled your shirt back on and moved to walk out of the room. She stopped you with a hand on your shoulder.
“Dont touch me.” You growled quietly. She ignored this, “You plan on stealing that?” You ripped the tag of and pressed it into her hand. As soon as she moved her hand off of you, you stalked out of the store, escape the only thing on your mind now, you broke into a run, approaching the nearest person. A middle aged woman in workout wear, a gym back slung over her shoulder with a purple yoga mat sticking out of it.
“Please,” you grabbed her arm, “you have to help me.” You glanced behind you, heart pounding.
“She kidnapped me, my name is y/n l/n, ‘i’m from america-” looking behind you again you caught a flash of Nat’s red hair. “She’s coming. Go, call the police.” The woman nodded at you and turned pulling her phone out of her pocket, her eyes wide with worry. Natasha’s too familiar hand clamped down on your shoulder.
“What did you say to her?”
“N-nothing,” you cursed yourself for not being better at lying, “she asked for directions, that’s all.” She narrowed her eyes at you and pulled out her gun. It was as if it was happining in slow motion. Natasha cocked the gun and aimed flawlessly. There was a bang, the gun kicked back and the woman dropped like a stone. You ran towards her, Natasha walking calmly behind you. The area had cleared completely. You stopped when you reached the woman, a pool of blood was forming around her crumpled body. Her leg was bent the wrong way and a there was a bullet hole in her back. She lay face down. You took a step back and then another until your back hit a wall and you slid down it, pulling your knees to your chest.
Natasha walked past you, sparing you only a glance as she approached the woman, kicking the back out of the way she reached down to the woman’s phone and ended the phone call. You didn’t really see her crush the phone under her foot because something had rolled over to you, stopping just short of your sneakers, now stained with blood. Your heart dropped. It was as if the horror stopped your body from working. A baby bottle filled with golden liquid. Apple juice probably.
“Y/n. It’s time to go.” You just stared at the bottle, picturing the kid who would never know their mother because of you.
“Y/n, get up.” You didn’t move, you couldn’t. Your head was spinning and you felt like throwing up. Without warning you were pulled to your feet by your arm. You squealed at the sudden pain and heard Natasha bark at the man to loosen his grip. You stumbled behind, still being pulled by the arm into the car. As soon as the doors closed, the car pulled out.
“Na-” you started, your head still spinning. She turned to you, face terrifyingly blank,
“No.” That was all she said on the ride back. You arrived at the house and she got out of the car. The doors locked behind her and you stayed put. You heard the trunk open and close, then she got back in. They’d taken you to a hotel. Natasha escorted you to a room.
“Mine is across the hall.” She said stiffly then left the room. You knew her guards would let you leave the floor, let alone the hotel, so you nodded a thank you and did as you were told for once. You collapsed into the bed, finally letting yourself cry. A woman was dead because of you. You knew it was your fault. Another motherless child all because you couldn’t obey. No more, you thought to yourself. You would be good. Behave. Do what she asked you to. After all, it was only a year. No one else had to die.
“In college I had a physics professor who wrote the date and time in red marker on a sheet of white paper and then lit the paper on fire and placed it on a metallic mesh basket on the lab table where it burned to ashes. He asked us whether or not the information on the paper was destroyed and not recoverable, and of course we were wrong, because physics tells us that information is never lost, not even in a black hole, and that what is seemingly destroyed is, in fact, retrievable. In that burning paper the markings of ink on the page are preserved in the way the flame flickers and the smoke curls. Wildly distorted to the point of chaos, the information is nonetheless not dead. Nothing, really, dies. Nothing dies. Nothing dies.”
— Nicholas Rombes, The Absolution of Roberto Acestes Laing (via bobschofield)
You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.
And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.
And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.
And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.
(Aaron Freeman, “Planning Ahead Can Make A Difference In The End”)
“Eu me rendo, eu gosto de você, gosto mesmo. Saco, por que a gente diz que gosta e não consegue dizer a verdade? Eu te amo, é isso, falei.”
— Gabito Nunes.
themidnightcrimson
keyb792 asked:
I def vote in favour of a part 4 of mentor usually I’m beyond satisfied with your fics and the 2 or 3 parts they have, the ending always makes sense and there’s isn’t any story to tell after them , but mentor is the first story of yours that I think could go further because, I still have so many questions left unanswered like WHAT IS SHE GONNA DO WITH THAT PREGNANCY, TELL TO HER HUSBAND ? IS WANDA GONNA CLAIMED WHAT IS HERS , HER CHILD GOSHH
THIS IS TRUEEEEEEEEEE i also have no ideas where the story would go to answer those questions but i also kinda like leaving yall hanging bc i’m sadistic <333333
